Chapter 5

The morning sun filtered through thin clouds as Elena stepped onto the university campus, her heels echoing against the polished tiles of the Psychology Department corridor. The crisp air barely touched her flushed skin, sleep had been shallow, broken by memories of yesterday’s conversation with Cain Maddox. His words, his stare, the energy between them... it lingered in her body like heat after fire.

She clutched her notebook tightly to her chest as she reached Professor Lansing’s office. Her stomach churned not with nerves, exactly, but with a strange blend of anticipation and defiance.

Knocking twice, she pushed the door open.

“Come in,” Lansing called without looking up from the stack of papers before him.

Elena stepped in and shut the door behind her. The room smelled like stale coffee and old books, the sunlight casting golden lines through the blinds. Lansing finally looked up, eyes scanning her face with a cool, practiced expression.

“You’re early,” he noted.

“I thought it would be better this way,” she said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Before the day gets ahead of me.”

He nodded once and gestured for her to begin.

Elena set her notebook on the table and flipped it open. Her handwriting was neat but firm, the ink still fresh in some places.

“I completed my second session with Cain Maddox yesterday,” she began.

Lansing’s brows lifted. “You went back.”

“I did. And I intend to keep going.”

He didn’t interrupt, though the shift in his posture told her he wasn’t thrilled.

She cleared her throat. “He wasn’t restrained. It’s how they’re handling my request for a private room, no cuffs. There was a guard outside.”

Lansing raised a hand. “Elena. You don’t have to justify your safety protocols to me. If you feel unsafe…”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly, too quickly. “It was intense. But not dangerous.”

Lansing leaned back, his fingers lacing beneath his chin. “Go on.”

Elena inhaled deeply. “This session was... revealing. We began to explore his psychological state during the time leading up to his sister’s death. He mentioned her being sweet and artistic. Idealistic. He made a point to compare me to her.”

“That could be projection,” Lansing said, ever the academic. “Or manipulation.”

“I know. But it didn’t feel like manipulation. At least, not textbook manipulation.” She looked up. “He challenges me. Constantly. He deflects, yes, but he also offers these flashes of vulnerability. Almost like he’s daring me to get closer.”

Lansing narrowed his eyes. “And do you want to get closer?”

The question hung in the air longer than it should have. Elena kept her expression neutral. “I want to understand him. That’s my job.”

He studied her face for a moment, then sighed and took off his glasses. “I want you to be honest with yourself, Elena. This isn’t like writing a paper on abstract theory. You’re dealing with a real person, a convicted murderer. Not someone reenacting trauma for your academic enlightenment. It will affect you. Has it already?”

She met his gaze squarely. “Of course it has. But I’m not quitting.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Lansing said, voice gentler now. “But you should know the signs when boundaries blur.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

That question stung more than she expected. Elena looked down at her notes again, as if the ink might offer clarity.

“He said he burned. That he’s still burning. That’s not something you say for effect. That’s something you live.”

Lansing sat back and folded his arms. “You’re getting invested. That’s dangerous, Elena.”

“I’m getting invested in understanding him,” she corrected. “That’s not the same.”

He gave her a long, unreadable look before finally nodding. “All right. Then let’s talk about content. Tell me about his behavioral patterns during the session. Any signs of remorse, delusion, or cognitive dissonance?”

“No remorse,” she said plainly. “Not even an attempt at it. But he’s lucid. Very self-aware. And brutally honest.”

“Lack of remorse but high self-awareness,” Lansing murmured, jotting something down. “Textbook psychopathy. But he didn’t show signs of manipulation?”

She hesitated. “Not in the traditional sense. He pushes boundaries, yes. He wants to unnerve me, maybe even provoke an emotional response. But I think it’s less about control and more about curiosity. Like… he’s testing what I’ll do. What I’ll believe.”

“Which could be even more dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said again, more firmly this time.

“Good,” Lansing replied. “But be smart.”

He slid his own notes to the side and looked at her fully now like he was seeing not just his student, but the woman making a choice.

“This could be your most powerful academic work, Elena,” he said. “But it’s also the kind of project that scars people. Don’t let your ambition make you blind.”

“I won’t,” she whispered.

There was a pause. The old clock ticked softly in the background.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, softly now. “You still can. You’ve done enough to write something meaningful. No one would question your reasons.”

She shook her head, gaze steady. “I’m not stopping.”

Lansing gave a slow nod. “Then keep recording everything. Stay objective. And Elena?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever feel like you’re not yourself in that room anymore, walk away. No thesis is worth losing yourself over.”

She smiled faintly. “Noted.”

With that, she closed her notebook and stood.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Anytime. And Elena?”

She paused at the door.

“Curiosity is fine,” Lansing said. “Just don’t let it become a fascination.”

She nodded once, quietly, and walked out.

But long after she was gone, Lansing remained still in his chair, staring at the closed door, a crease deepening between his brows.

He had seen this kind of story before.

And it never ended the way anyone expected.